


two slow dancers

by Macremae



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/F, Post-Canon, Running Away, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: They meet in a cafe, except they didn't, except they do.





	two slow dancers

Here is a list of things:

Love. Lust. Snails. Hatred. Peanut Butter. Laptop computers. Bones. Hippopotamuses. Gold-covered chocolates with creamy caramel filling. Nights so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face, can’t see your eyes or your nose or your future, just the endless black in front of you, stretching out into forever like an ocean of cold slate. Yellow rubber bands. Mustard.

Here are some things that matter to Eve Polastri:

Her life. Her apartment. The necklace her mother gave her when she was five. The wedding ring she kept from her ex-husband. The black and white dress that hangs in the back of closet, pressed and still smelling faintly of wet fabric. Sunday morning french toast. Sweaters.

Oksana Astankova.

This is a new development for Eve, not only because she typically doesn’t think of herself as liking women (aside from those she works with, and in a firmly platonic way), but because most people she likes in general are not, as a rule, Russian assassins who can, have tried to, and perhaps will, kill her. 

Of course, Oksana (codename Villanelle, how clever, ha ha ha ha ha) is dead. She is dead because Eve stabbed her, very hard, in the stomach with a long, pretty knife, getting blood all over the sheets of her lovely French apartment. This was after they laid tenderly together for about ten or so minutes, drinking in each other’s faces like a pair of lovers, and possibly gearing up for some very passionate sex.

Eve does not know how to feel about this, or perhaps how to feel in general, but that seems a bit to sociopathic for her tastes. She also does not know how to feel about Villanelle. She may never learn.

But that is just smoke in the wind, or a puddle on the ground, or a little bit of blood on the floor.

•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•

She’s drinking her coffee, cupping it in her hands gently as steam rises from the top, cradling it like a baby bird. There’s a little design in the foam: a cat with thick whiskers and knubby ears smiling at her. She feels sick to her stomach; the cat is mocking. Her knee bounces nervously, shaking the chair a little. It rattles over the din of soft music and loud voices, sticking in her ears like an alarm.

Eve Polastri tucks a lock of curly dark hair behind her ear and nervously sips her latte, eyes glazing over for a moment. The warm liquid runs down her throat, pooling in her stomach. She swallows hard again, feeling her throat expand and contract with the movement. The pulse continues, thrumming throughout her body. Eve frowns.

The cafe is small and brown, with brick walls and warm wooden counters. There is local art on the walls, and pastries from the panaderia a few blocks away, and students clacking away at shiny new laptops next to homeless men in jackets. It’s a quintessential small-town cafe, one that Eve feels cautiously at home in. She breathes out slowly and takes another sip of her latte.

A shadow falls over her face, and the chair across from her is pulled out. Long, slim hands fall onto the table, a few gold rings around the fingers. The nails are dark, cherry-red and glossy. They are connected to pale arms, wrapped in soft pink cashmere that pills slightly.

Eve swallows.

“Hello,” says Villanelle cheerfully, her lips a classical red. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Eve takes a quiet, deep breath, and sets her coffee down. “You,” she says, voice barely wavering, “are supposed to be dead.”

Villanelle winks. “Sorry, baby.”

“Don’t,” she snaps, her cup clattering on the table. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Ooh, grumpy.” Villanelle pillows her head on her hands. “You miss me?”

“Not particularly.”

“Ha!” She flutters her eyelashes. “I missed you.”

Eve sighs and leans back in her chair. “Okay,” she says, “okay. You’re not dead. Probably should have predicted that--”

“Don’t sell yourself too short--”

“Shut up, I am not talking to you.” She groans. “Jesus Christ. You asshole. I can’t believe you didn’t die.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes. “Please. You are terrible at stabbing people.”

“Oh great, good to know. _I’ll try harder next time_.”

With a pout, Villanelle steals Eve’s coffee cup and takes a long, luxurious sip. She places it back in front of her gracefully. Eve glares.

“Don’t steal my fucking coffee, _Oksanka_. You have a hell of a lot more money than me.”

Villanelle’s eyes sparkle. “Would you prefer I bought you another?”

“No,” she snaps, turning the handle of her cup back towards her.

“I could get you a present instead. There is a dress I saw in Copenhagen that would look--”

“I don’t want anything from you!” Eve hisses, gripping the edge of the table. Villanelle raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“Liar,” she sneers, “we shared a moment.”

“I stabbed you in the stomach!”

“It was very sexy if you think about it.”

“I don’t,” Eve says, “I really don’t.”

“Well.” Villanelle crosses her legs and dangles a hand beneath her chin. “I do.” She tilts her head to the side. “How are you, Eve Polastri? Are you well?”

Eve snarls. “Wow. Okay. Let’s see: my husband divorced me, I don’t have a job, my best friend is dead, and I’m sitting in a cafe with one of the most wanted criminals on the planet. I’m doing really, really well, Oksana, thanks.”

Villanelle frowns. “I’m very sorry. That sounds difficult.”

“ _You_ are the reason for all of this!”

“Really? She lets her fingers dangle against her throat, the light catching on her bracelets. “Am I the only reason for this, Eve?”

Eve furrows her brow. “You,” she says matter-of-factly, “are a thief and a murderer. You’ve killed multiple innocent people, endangered my life, and possibly set in motion events that will bring down the entire fucking world. This is all your fault.”

“Hmm.” She taps her fingers on her neck. “Would it help if I told you I’m sorry?”

Eve barks out a bitter laugh, tossing her head back. She doesn’t see Villanelle’s eyes follow the curve of her throat, or the gentle rustle of her hair. “Are you honest-to-God fucking with me? No-- no it would not help. You can’t bring Bill back, or my life back, or any of this back! You just mess things up even further.”

She stands and pushes out her chair, making to leave. Villanelle’s eyes widen, and he hand darts out to catch Eve. “Wait!” she says, “Please don’t go.” Her eyes are dark and dewey. “I want to talk to you.”

“Why?” Eve snaps, eyes like ice. Villanelle lets her shoulders rise and fall methodically.

“I get lonely sometimes. My only other friend is dead, and he wasn’t very nice anyway.” She blinks slowly. “Please stay.”

Eve is frozen, torn between logic and impulse. Her hand is warm where Villanelle holds it, and she can feel the other woman’s heartbeat through her skin.

This, she knows (oh God she knows) is unspeakably dangerous. Villanelle could (should) poison her, or stab her under the table, or blow the entire cafe to pieces. There’s no telling what she’ll do now that she has Eve in her sights. Eve should go, find the safest possible spot, and call the police. She should go back to her cold little apartment, make tea and toast, and try her goddamn hardest to forget the entire thing ever happened.

Eve sits back down.

Villanelle claps her hands together happily. “Wonderful! I’m so glad you could stay.”

Eve sighs, running a hand through the mess that is her hair. “It-- it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. What do you want?”

She blinks like a reptile. “To talk! I want to know you, Eve.”

“I thought you’ve already been stalking me,” Eve says dryly. Villanelle shakes her head.

“Just the basics. I know you and your husband are divorced. I know you take your coffee with two sugars and three creams. I know you never buy anything nice for yourself, which really, I can fix that easily.”

Eve frowns. “I don’t need your illegal charity.”

“It’s not charity. I don’t feel bad for you.”

“I’d be surprised if you felt anything at all.”

Villanelle sticks out her bottom lip. “Mean.”

With a roll of her eyes, Eve takes another sip of her coffee. “Says the woman who kills people for a living.”

“I do it nicely.”

“Oh, well, if you do it nicely--”

“Eve,” she says, and Eve stops. Villanelle is looking at her strangely, less like a lion sizing up its prey, and more like a cat carefully considering another. She steals Eve’s coffee again again, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. For no reason at all, Eve feels herself blush.

“I think I should be asking you,” says Villanelle, “what do you want?”

Eve blinks. “What-- what I want?”

“Yes.”

She sighs heavily and puts her chin in her hands. “I don’t know. More coffee?”

Villanelle tilts her head a few degrees to the left. “Is that all?”

“No,” says Eve, “no. I want a cat. I want a new pack of hair ties. I want to close my eyes and feel safe again. I want…” She pauses. “I want a life worth living.”

Villanelle reaches across the table and covers Eve’s hand with her own. Eve surprises herself when she doesn’t pull away.

“I can give you that.”

She swallows, still as a statue. “That’s a very dangerous promise, Oksana.”

“I’m a very dangerous woman.”

“What about the Twelve?”

Villanelle laughs. “Ha! What about them?”

“They need to be stopped. They’re a threat, not just to you and me, but to everyone.” She leans forward, eyes beginning to crackle. “Why shouldn’t we?”

Villanelle considers this for a moment. She taps her chin comically, the red of her nails flashing against her pale skin. Then, she grins. “Okay.”

Eve jolts back. “That-- that’s it? ‘Okay’?”

She shrugs. “Sure. It could be fun.”

There’s a sudden shock to her system, like morning dew on bare feet. All of a sudden, the world hums with possibilities and change. For the first time in several weeks, perhaps months, Eve Polastri smiles.

•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•·.·´`·.·•

Here is a little of what happens:

Eve moves out of her apartment the next day, driving to Paris in a luxury Prius that Villanelle probably stole from somewhere. She finds a CD already in the deck and plays it; three hours of songs in Russian and German and French she’s never heard before. It feels intimate in a strange way, like Villanelle is giving her a part of her soul.

She knows where the place is, and hauls her bags up the stairs over the course of half an hour, cursing the ineffectiveness of her morning coffee. The apartment is cleaned, all evidence of Eve’s rampage gone. There are new sheets on the bed, and a second wardrobe against the wall, and several boxes of clothes on the kitchen table. On top of them is a note: “Welcome home”. Despite herself, Eve grins. They really are nice clothes.

Villanelle arrives the next morning, uncharacteristically rumpled from her bus ride, and braids Eve’s hair as the other woman makes tea and toast. They eat in comfortable yet uncertain silence, Villanelle reading several newspapers from various countries. Eve picks up the one from Italy and tries to muddle through with her basic knowledge of Latin. 

They kiss eventually, although they’re in no rush, and plan for more missions, more fights, more moving and travel and taking down the Twelve. Eve learns a few more languages. Villanelle learns to budget. They make it work. 

Here is a list of things: friendship, companionship, running, fine clothes, gourmet food, ice cream, bad movies, really bad movies, black and white dresses, green scarves, hairpin knives and electric rings, foreign cities with endless sky, love.

Here are some things that matter to Eve Polastri: Oksana, Oksana, Oksana.


End file.
